


Forfeit

by DecoySocktopus



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Extra Treat, Fucking a cloaca, Hemipenis, Other, Porn with Feelings, Submission as a Consequence for Losing a Contest, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-23 14:51:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14334846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/pseuds/DecoySocktopus
Summary: Lord Arum and Sir Damien meet on neutral ground.





	Forfeit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).



It is evening, and the shadows grow long across the Second Citadel. Inside, the rooms are empty; it’s a festival night, after all. Songs and stories waft on the wind, as do the smells of cooking spices, herbs, roasting meats. There is laughter in the air. Human and, for just one night in the year, monster as well.

Sir Damien stands alone at the base of a weeping willow’s trunk. He performs for his audience from the top of a wooden crate. Not that he needs the extra height or anything; it just adds a touch of dramatic flair to his performance.

“-Saint Dwynwen, the little sister who brought love to the Citadel, inspiring all who heard her to lay down their weapons and seek unity with their fellow man and monster. One day and one night of peace and collaboration, to commemorate the forbidden love she cherished and never set aside. Hers was a courage every bit as great as that of her other siblings. Perhaps greater still, for her festival is the only one in which we may find ourselves sitting side by side at the fire with our mortal enemies. Such is the power of her decree, for she did state that during her celebration, no man nor woman nor monster-” he pauses for effect, winking at a knee-high girl who immediately hides behind her father’s arm, “nor indeed any child, may harm another within the boundaries of the Citadel. For during this time, we are as one people, and all are welcome here.”

Damien steps down from the crate with a bow and a flourish of his cloak, gratified by the applause that follows. And further pleased to see that a good third of his audience isn’t human; he spies selkie toddlers wrapped in furs, wolf spider pups with graceless legs they have yet to grow into, basilisk babes with mother cockerels in tow, and several little lizardlings with gemstone eyes and four spindly arms apiece. All sit patient with their parents, all applaud with just as much enthusiasm as his human listeners.

He bows again for good measure and steps aside to allow for the puppeteers to set up their stage. They will perform the usual simple, humorous stories designed to appeal across culture and species, and careful to avoid any historical tales which, although far bloodier and therefore more entertaining, risk causing offense.

A delicate day, is Saint Dwynwen’s. An exercise in the kind of diplomacy that defeats them for the rest of the year. Luckily enough, Damien is quite the diplomat, in addition to all his other prodigious skills.

“A good start to the festivities, I think,” he remarks as, unnoticed by all but one, he reaches the back of the audience. “That story always does draw the crowd. Do you know, I’ve often wondered if it is told by monster-kind and, if so, whether that telling bears any resemblance to the human recollection.”

In the shadow of the weeping willow’s pendulous fronds, Lord Arum stirs.

“We have many stories of our own,” he says. “Each as unique as the creature that tells it, and _none_ that we have felt the need to borrow from humankind. Your tales are bland, Honeysuckle. Why would we want them?” His voice is like the rasp of a sword emerging from its scabbard, or a knife as it glides across whetstone. Not a beautiful sound, to be sure; not like a soprano’s song or the twitter of birds in willow branches, or the whisper of rain on the Citadel’s walls. It is a harsh, hateful thing.

It brings an inexplicable joy to Damien’s heart. He leans his shoulder against one of Arum’s, nudging him in gentle challenge.

“Friend lizard, I have caught you in a lie,” he says blithely. “Surely monster-kind must tell a similar tale to our own, or else how would they know to come and join Saint Dwynwen’s festivities? How would they know of her vow, and the way it binds us from committing violence, from one dusk to the next? No, this must be a tale we share.”

“Perhaps,” Arum acknowledges. “Or perhaps we have our own version.”

“Do you tell it from the perspective of her forbidden love? That is not a version I have ever heard, although I suppose it makes for uncomfortable telling, for a human.”

Arum makes a sibilant noise, a series of interlaced clicks that Damien knows to indicate pleasure. He doesn’t answer the question. That’s just typical for him, and Damien is not offended. He would have been surprised had the response been anything else.

It has been some time since they were last in each other’s company; time he has passed in agonies of absence, expressing his aching thoughts in even more tragic poetry than usual, and falling an entire two monsters behind in his competition with Sir Angelo. He has composed sonnets speaking of a vague yet very moving adoration. He has written arias for the singers to take and make music from, drawing out long and lovely notes from his sadness. He has cultivated an expression of wordless yearning, which he lets loose at any appropriate occasion so that all might know that he is pining for love.

Of course, the rest of the Citadel assumes he is mourning the end of his engagement. And dearest Rilla herself has done him the great courtesy of not mentioning it. This is something of a relief; Damien isn’t sure what he’d do if someone actually asked him what he was miserable about. He wouldn’t begin to know how to explain.

He writes to Arum frequently. Several times a week, waxing poetic about the minutiae of Citadel life, and the adventures he has been on. He is careful to avoid mentioning the monsters he kills, and Arum is good enough not to enumerate the humans he has disembowelled recently. Their letters are formal and florid affairs, dripping in the unspoken, overflowing with the weight of that which cannot be.

At least, Damien assumes this is the case with Arum’s letters. It certainly is with his own.

“Come,” he says, as the easy silence between them is broken by the puppeteers and their rambunctious opening act. “As much as I enjoy puppetry, these are stories for children. I am sure that you and I can find other amusements around the Citadel. There is to be a treasure hunt, games for children and adults alike, and challenges of strength and skill. Not to mention the midnight fireworks, which Rilla tells me will be a treat to behold. She should know; she compiled the mixtures.”

“Ah, yes,” Arum says. “Dear Rilla. How is she?” His tone is unconcerned, and belies the fact that he and Rilla have begun to exchange sporadic correspondence since their misadventure during the last Festival of the Three. Not near as frequent as the correspondence between Arum and Damien himself, but still. Therein lie the seeds of a friendship Damien encourages, although he can’t quite work out why.

“She is well,” Damien says. “Busy with her work and as brilliant as she ever was. I sometimes find myself mourning the ending of our engagement, but those dark moments grow ever fewer and farther between. We are best as friends, I think. And she seems very happy.”

“And you, Honeysuckle, have you grown slow and sluggish in the time since I saw you last?”

“I confess, I have not! The broken leg has long since healed…although, I must admit, I have recently suffered three cracked ribs, and move a little stiffly as they heal. But no matter. The damage is hardly enough to slow me down. I’m sure I could still match you in a duel.”

This is such an obvious lie that Damien is unsurprised to find Arum laughing at him, a chuckle hissing between his pointed teeth. And well-deserved, he admits; his ribs are causing some trouble when he bends, and make any kind of physical exertion a difficulty. He’s not so sure how he’d fare if we went up against one of Arum’s knives tonight. Let alone all four.

“Not a duel,” Arum says, and Damien hides a sigh of relief. “Not tonight; it would not be in the spirit of the festival.” The excuse sounds a little unconvincing but Damien lets it pass, just this once. He rather thinks it might be Arum’s best attempt at a kindness. “Perhaps a challenge? A contest of skill, your arrows against my knives. A game, if you will. I should like to see which of us has the better aim; I am sure I already know the answer.”

“As do I,” Damien retorts, “and I am glad to see that we can both agree I am superior. A contest of aim? Very well. The archery field will be empty this evening; all the archers will be occupied with the exhibitions of skill, and the games inside the Citadel walls. We would be uninterrupted.  No witnesses for your inevitable defeat.”

“Or yours,” Arum snarls, and follows Damien out through the curtain of willow leaves.

The archery field is dark and abandoned; Damien lights torches by the targets, squinting through the evening shadows. He doesn’t miss Arum’s apparent ease in the unfamiliar territory. Unlike Damien, he doesn’t stumble on rocks or longer grass. His tail weaves catlike through the air around his legs. He waits, poised and ever graceful, as Damien fumbles for another few torches at the starting line.

“What’s this?” he asks. “Is my little knight afraid of the dark?” He laughs, and even Damien cracks a smile.

“Not a bad joke,” he allows. “A bit simplistic, and hardly original material, but impressive wordplay for an uncultured monster.” He ducks as one of Arum’s arms swipes at his head, claws ruffling his hair as they pass above. It’s a very slow attack, calculated to be seen and avoided. Still, Damien hisses and clutches briefly at his ribs. He avoids eye contact as he straightens.

“Your wounds pain you,” Arum says.

“Nothing to worry about, I am tranquillity itself,” Damien says shakily. “Do not attempt to distract me from our contest, friend lizard, for I am not so easily diverted from my course. I will have this victory. Shall we begin?”

It is not a fair contest, but Damien would have expected nothing less. They jostle each other; Arum looms over him as he takes aim, and Damien in turn leans too close as Arum prepares to throw a knife, blowing cold air down the lizard’s neck and dancing back to avoid another swipe. He lines an arrow up against one cheek, and feels claws brush against his other, a lethal caress. And as Arum makes his second throw, Damien ‘stumbles’, grabbing for two of his scaled arms for balance.

They push and pull and attempt to startle. At the fourth throw, he tugs Arum’s tail and snickers as it earns him a warning snap of needle-sharp lizard teeth. And, aiming his fourth arrow, Damien shivers as Arum leans in and very purposefully nips his earlobe. The sound he makes is not one he is proud of. And yet, his aim is true.

They are drawn at four, and Arum’s fifth knife strikes the centre of its target, same as all the rest. He offers Damien a mocking bow.

“Your move, Honeysuckle,” he says. “I do hope nothing distracts you from your target.”

His tail lashes between his legs; in the torchlight, his violet eyes glimmer like smooth amethyst, like the purple line on a horizon at sunset. Hypnotic eyes. With them, he ensnared Damien’s mind, the first time they met; not with any kind of magic, but rather with the intelligence lurking conspicuously behind the bestial slitted pupils. With the excitement he couldn’t hide, as their duels grew risky, adventurous, unpredictable. With laughter, all the times he has turned to words to spar against Damien, tossing insults like stones and catching any that come his way. With the brief, affectionate light that flickers every time he uses Damien’s nicknames. Those are dangerous eyes. A man could lose himself in them.

As Damien has; his final arrow wavers (impossible! Surely not!) and lands several inches away from the centre.

Damien watches, dismayed, as Arum approaches the target.

“You’ve missed,” his lizardly nemesis says gleefully. “What a shame. I suppose now we know which of us is superior.”

“I object most strenuously,” Damien says. “You had the advantage; I am human, and struggle to see in these all-encompassing shadows. Do not think I didn’t notice your comfort. I take it you can see in the dark?”

“I can,” Arum acknowledges.

“Then the challenge was unfair.”

“And yet, you agreed to it. Will you refuse the penalty for loss?”

“I will not,” Damien says stiffly. “Be so good as to _not_ question my honour; the contest was not fair, but I am defeated nonetheless. I submit to the penalty, whatever it is. Did you have something painfully dastardly in mind? A monster’s punishment? Something agonising, or humiliating, as befits your kind? Or…would you prefer to stick with the traditional festival forfeit, as it is among humans?”

He can’t believe the words as they leave his lips, or the tone they take on; challenging, hopeful, far too hungry. How much of himself he reveals with that simple question. His secret, which he would have taken to the grave rather than give words to. His twisted longings, which have kept him awake on many a sleepless night, aching and ashamed.

His…love. Because love it is, however strenuously he denies it. He loves his amethyst-eyed monster with his snakelike scales and pointed teeth, his four arms and claws the size of sickles. His sharp, biting tones and inhuman hisses. The way it feels when they challenge each other. When they balance each other; one’s weakness is the other’s strength, so that as a unit they are nothing less than perfection. This is love. Was there ever any point to denying it?

Damien swallows hard as Arum stands over him, looming a head and a half higher up, his sinuous form fading into the darkness around them.

“Well now, Honeysuckle,” Arum says. He touches Damien’s face with careful claws. Explores his hairline, his temples and eyelashes, his cheekbones and the corners of his lips. Damien allows it. His heart pounds, so fast he wonders if it might be going to burst. He feels almost lightheaded. “The…traditional forfeit, did you say? That is brave of you.”

“I am not a coward, friend lizard,” Damien says. He jumps as Arum’s claws find his neck, tracing his jugular. “I will take my penalty. You need only ask.” _Please ask,_ he thinks, staring up into Arum’s eyes and hoping that his own convey something of his desperation. _Please don’t make me ask in turn. For, though I am no coward, I fear I lack the courage for that. Saint Dwynwen managed what I cannot. May she forgive me._

Arum steps back. “The traditional forfeit, then,” he says with a rattling chuckle. “Traditional among my kind as well, though it is a rare and uncanny thing to offer to a human. Not unheard of, but…I never thought I would be one to ask. You challenge me in so many ways, Damien.”

“I feel the same way about you,” Damien says. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding; he is still lightheaded, but the giddiness makes itself known as relief. “Challenged, I mean, I…I had...wondered if it was mutual. Saints above, I am glad to find it is so.”

They return to the willow grove, where the puppeteers and their audience have long since dispersed into the night, seeking out further song and laugher, or perhaps the stews and pastries wafting their heady scents on the gentle breeze. The grass here is soft and slightly damp. Unasked, Arum slips the violet cloak from his shoulders and casts it across the ground at Damien’s feet.

“How noble of you,” Damien says.

Arum gives a clicking chuckle, like the cry of some elegant, exotic bird. “It seems easier than putting up with your pouting and complaints,” he says, and this time Damien is the one to take a swipe at him. His half-hearted push collides with one of Arum’s scaled shoulders; the lizard moves not an inch. Defeated, Damien sinks to the ground, careful not to jolt his ribs.

He stretches out on the cloak, which is so very vast that it shields him head to toe from the grass beneath. It is soft, velvety. He touches the fabric appreciatively.

“Lord Arum,” he says, shifting aside to make space as Arum settles down by his side. “My friend, my…Arum. I must speak my heart.”

“I doubt there is anything I could do to stop you,” Arum says, voice as dry as a midsummer meadow. “Speak then, Honeysuckle. I will listen. Until you bore me, at least.” It is only mildly unnerving to see him fold two arms behind his reptilian skull, and the other two over his stomach. His four knives are sheathed across his ribs, two on either side, the straps crossing elegantly across a tunic that would look almost human were it not for the differences in cut and shaping. His tail drapes idly across Damien’s ankles.

Damien clears his suddenly dry throat.

“There is a feeling inside of me,” he begins. “It has been growing for some time now; indeed, I became aware of its…devastating existence after our first encounter, and I am afraid it has only grown stronger ever since.”

“Sounds serious,” Arum says. “Have you considered seeking medical attention?”

Damien fixes him with a scowl he fears is less than convincing. “I beg you, do not mock my confession,” he says severely. “I’ll have you know, I have rewritten it a hundred times over in my mind, and never once achieved anything close to a true expression of my feelings. Words will not serve, I fear. And yet, words are the only tools I possess.”

Arum hisses, an oddly fond sound. “Humans,” he says. “So restricted in your abilities. Where you fumble for words to make your feelings known, I am already three steps ahead. I read your intentions in the ways you move; your hesitations speak louder than any _words_ you might use. I taste your thoughts on the air before you yourself know what they are.” His forked tongue flickers from between sharp teeth, darting out to touch the tip of Damien’s nose. It tickles. Startled, he laughs.

“Well then,” he says. “It seems all of my speeches, inadequate as they are, will not be needed. But you must tell me, friend lizard, for I do not possess your uncanny senses. Am I alone in these feelings? Can you…find it within yourself to return them?”

Arum does a very good job of conveying that he would like to roll his eyes, were he capable of doing so. “Obviously,” he snaps. “Why else would I dally with a human? Why else would I spare your life, treat your wounds, and respond in kind to your unnecessarily long letters? There is a madness that has taken root in me, and you are its cause. I hope you’re happy.”

“Oh, I am,” Damien says. “Truly. Thank you; you have set my heart at ease. At last, I have rediscovered Saint Damien’s tranquillity, which has eluded me in the months since we first met. I am grateful for your patience; I hope one day to repay it in kind. And now, if…if you are willing. I believe there was the matter of…the forfeit.”

“So there was,” Arum says, hooking his claws into the laces of Damien’s tunic.

Beneath the eerily humanoid clothing, Arum’s scales glisten with a dull sheen, silvery under what little moonlight filters through the willow branches. Under Damien’s hands, the scales feel like pebbles fixed into a wall, papered over with the thinnest strips of leather. Cool to the touch. He is hesitant to call it _skin_ ; his mind offers alternatives. _Hide_ , perhaps, or the less savoury _pelt_ \- and how many monster pelts has he brought home in the aftermath of successful hunts, slung across his horse and presented triumphantly to the Queen and Sir Angelo?

But Arum is not quite like other monsters. And amusingly enough, he seems to find Damien’s form just as much of a shock; his four clawed hands hover ineffectually over Damien’s shoulders and chest. He seeks out the familiar lines of bone and muscle. Seems to draw comfort from their similarity to his own, though of course he has twice as many joints and elbows and fingers. He is openly fascinated by the hairs on Damien’s arms, ruffling them this way and that and hissing through his teeth. He grows slightly careless with his caresses; the edge of a claw catches one of Damien’s nipples, and now he is the one hissing.

“Gentle, I beg of you. I’m very sensitive there.”

“My apologies.” This time Arum is careful, keeping his claws well clear as he drags his ridged fingertips across the tip of Damien’s nipple. It’s an utterly alien sensation, but a wonderful one; he shivers, biting his lip. Emboldened by this small success, he brings his hands back to Arum’s scales.

Such strange things they are. Tough, leathery, and hairless. Damien is put in mind of chainmail, and the impression lingers. Up close, he spots variations in Arum’s coloration. The greenish tone is broken up by patches of black and occasional gold. There is no pattern that Damien can discern; the different colours seem as random as the freckles that litter his own skin. He leans in and rubs a cheek across the scales on Arum’s chest. They are utterly scentless; he had half expected something more metallic, like the chainmail he cannot help but compare them to. And then he realises that he is a fool. They cannot be scentless. Rather, he lacks the organs with which to discern what Arum’s skin smells like.

“How different you are,” he marvels. And gasps, shocked, as Arum’s forked tongue flickers out to touch one of his nipples. It leaves him briefly insensate, moaning low in his throat as the touch is repeated.

“Mammals,” Arum says with a shake of his head. But his tone is an airy rasp, amused affection. “You are so easily manipulated; your forms are so fragile, so...pliant. And so unsubtle. I’d wager I already know more of your erogenous zones than you yourself are aware of.”

“That is not a wager I would take,” Damien says. “For though I am no coward, I know a lost cause when I see it. Once again, I admit defeat.”

He is also somewhat perplexed by Arum’s form itself, although his pride will not yet allow him to admit it. His caresses traverse those pebbled flanks, that sleek chest, the frilled folds at Arum’s neck. There is no discernible reaction. And yet, Arum in turn has already coaxed a flush from Damien’s treacherous body; his claws summon shivers, and his tongue traces a delicate path up Damien’s jugular. He seems fascinated by the pulse that pounds beneath. Perhaps he can hear the rush of Damien’s blood. Perhaps it brings to mind the no-doubt dozens of humans whose throats he has shredded.

And yet, Damien finds no fear within his heart. Only that treacherous wanting which has plagued him nightly for months, and now burns as bright as a forest fire, consuming all common sense, all shame, all but the need which rises steadily and which he is trying very hard not to rub against Arum’s flank. That would not be chivalrous. A knight must show some restraint, even when the situation is starting to become rather desperate.

Arum still appears utterly unaffected. This, Damien thinks, must be the height of unfairness.

“You seem confused, Honeysuckle,” Arum tells him. His teeth fix upon Damien’s neck, careful not to break skin. It is a cold, sharp grip that forces Damien to breathe shallowly, to tilt his head back instinctively. “Perhaps you’d like to ask for help?”

Damien gives a faint laugh. “I am not quite defeated enough for that, although I confess I am approaching the point of surrender. I do not seem able to please you at all. That is…unfortunate. And rather embarrassing besides.”

“Am I not pleased?” Arum asks. His rattling chuckle shakes the bones in Damien’s throat. “Maybe you should pay more attention.”

One of his claws fastens around Damien’s wrist. He guides it down past his second set of arms, between his legs, at the base of the long tail that has twined its way around one of Damien’s thighs. Obedient, Damien presses his fingers against the uneven surface, running them up until they meet with an opening in the scales. And higher still, he feels a ripple in Arum’s skin. Startled, he gasps, flinching away. But curiosity proves stronger than confusion; he touches again, fascinated by the two alien members that slide out from their encasings.

“ _Two_?” he asks. His voice shakes; he is dizzy with nerves. “That seems somewhat excessive.”

“Or perhaps this is just one more shortcoming you humans suffer from,” Arum says lazily. His tone is terribly self-satisfied. He revels in Damien’s shock. “I do hope I haven’t left you feeling too inadequate.”

The taunt is so perfectly… _Arum_ that Damien finds hesitation giving way to laughter. It is, he admits, a truly ridiculous situation. A senseless thing to worry about. They are not the first to try a coupling of man and monster; he highly doubts they will be the last, and others have surely achieved a measure of success. He is no coward. He will not be so easily defeated.

Such strange appendages, though. Damien gives himself over to fascination, running his hands over unfamiliar bumps and spine-like ridges, solid like cartilage, firm against his fingers. At last, he feels Arum shiver under his touch. At last, the lizard’s breath catches, and he bucks up into Damien’s hands, hissing. His teeth scrape against one of Damien’s earlobes, which seem far more sensitive than they have any right to be.

One of his wandering hands finds its way back to the opening in Arum’s scales, an unexpected break in the pattern; two of his fingers slide easily past, and come away slick. Arum gives a low, approving rumble.

“It would seem that we have options,” Damien says. He rubs his fingertips together, testing the substance that coats them. “But I have not forgotten; you were the winner of our little contest, and I must accept the penalty. Which I will of course do, because I am no coward, and…yes. I am no coward.” He is, however, shaking with nerves. He eyes the spines and ridges that adorn Arum’s two inhuman (and of course they are inhuman, what was he expecting? He has offered himself to a monster, after all) members. They do not catch on his skin, or cut him when he touches them again. Still, he is…not afraid. Not that. Only slightly hesitant. Although in length and girth they are slightly less than his own offering, they still strike him as intimidating.

 _They will not fit_ , he thinks in a fit of panic. _They can’t possibly, not one, and certainly not two at once. Saint Damien above, I suspect I will need a lot more tranquillity than usual for this._

One of Arum’s clawed hands finds his chin, and lifts it. Damien looks into vivid violet eyes. So expressive; almost human.

“Breathe, Honeysuckle,” Arum tells him. “I can taste your terror on the air. What troubles you?”

“Only my own inexperience,” Damien admits ruefully. “I am…very much unprepared, you see, and to be quite honest with you I haven’t actually… Well. I suppose it won’t matter for much longer, and I am certainly no coward-”

“I know this,” Arum hisses patiently. “I am not in the habit of lying with cowards. And speaking of which.” He pushes Damien back down onto his back and mounts him without warning, his scaled thighs digging into Damien’s hips.

“I won our contest,” he says. “And you _will_ submit to me, in any way I choose.”

“I have agreed,” Damien says weakly. He twitches as droplets of that odd, slick substance drip down onto his thighs; he aches to coat his fingers with it again. To slip them back into the opening between Arum’s scales, warmer than the rest of him. To feel him shudder again. But it is not his place to ask. “Do with me as you please.”

“I always do.” With one graceful movement, Arum slides himself down onto Damien’s cock.

Damien convulses underneath him, crying out in shock, in joy, in the pleasure of the tight heat that engulfs him. His fingers cannot find purchase on Arum’s scales. And all Arum does is laugh at him.

“You seem surprised, little knight,” he says slyly. “I can’t imagine why.” His tail twines affectionately around one of Damien’s ankles and squeezes. “You are wounded, and I have no intention of causing any further damage; the longer you take to heal, the longer I will have to wait to engage you in another contest. This is the better option for _me_.”

“Yes,” Damien says. His heart is swelling with an almost painful tenderness. “Your motives are purely selfish, I see. Unsurprising for a monster such as yourself.” His nerves have been banished; in their wake, he finds himself playful. He reaches again for Arum’s twin members, with their odd adornments and mismatched colouring. Closes his hands around them, tugging gently and laughing as Arum hisses at him.

“I do believe there is another contest to be had here,” he says, looking up into Arum’s narrowed eyes. “I wonder. I have oft noticed that your stamina in physical combat is no match for my own; I am sure I can outlast you in this as well. What say you? Shall we make a game of it?”

Arum’s forked tongue flickers out from between his teeth. His eyes are bright, eager. He gives an idle roll of his hips, a sinuous motion that drips fluid down Damien’s thighs, and floods heat through his helpless stomach. “An easy victory, I think,” he says. “You are half gone already.”

“You underestimate me at your peril.”

“The only one of us in peril here is you.”

Damien’s grin is almost as sharp as Arum’s. “Then let the game begin.”

It is not, in the end, a fair fight. For all his denials, Damien’s ribs are rather badly cracked, and Arum is careful not to jolt them. Damien himself has no need to hold back; he has two hands and an abundance of curiosity. His victory is not a fair one, but it is a victory nonetheless. He is terribly smug about it.

“Next time,” Arum says acidly, settling onto his back and allowing Damien to stretch out on his chest, “I will have the victory. You cheated.”

“Yes,” Damien agrees cheerfully. “I contrived to have my ribs broken entirely for the purpose of beating you in this. You have exposed my cunning plan, friend lizard. I don’t know how you managed it.”

“I will see you beg for mercy.”

“And beg I shall. It seems only fair, given that you did the begging this time.”

“I did _not_. Your weak human ears deceive you.”

Damien gives a happy sigh. His head tucks very nicely under the lizard’s chin, and scales do not make as uncomfortable a headrest as expected. He wants to laugh. To sing, to declaim his joy to the world at large. “Such poetry there is in my heart, dearest Arum,” he says. “I must speak it.”

Arum gives a rumbling groan that does not sound anything like disapproval. “Any other time, I’d tell you that I would rather hang myself from the willow branches than endure one of your poems,” he says. “But I suppose, just this once. For the sake of the festival. _One_ poem only, mind you.”

“Just one,” Damien agrees. “And not one more. Except, of course, if I were to find myself inspired, I suppose I might extend my verses just a little. I cannot silence my heart, you know. It must be allowed to sing.”

“I never agreed to any singing.” Arum’s claws comb gently through Damien’s hair.

“We shall see,” Damien says. “For the moment, let us be blissful under the moonlight and the willows. The rest of the world can wait.”

“For a while, at least.”

Tomorrow will be a new day, in a new life, and Damien knows he will greet the dawn a changed man; how could he be otherwise? There will be a choice to make. Honour against heart, loyalty against love. Tomorrow, the battle begins.

But tonight he rests his head against Arum’s pebbled chest and lets his words rise up amidst the willow leaves.

It is a wonderful thing.

**Author's Note:**

> [Saint Dwynwen's Day](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dydd_Santes_Dwynwen) is a real Welsh celebration that bears little to no resemblance to the way I have portrayed it here, and is not in fact an excuse for unabashed lizard fuckery. I know. I was surprised too.


End file.
